Progress
by Klyntaliah
Summary: On what was supposed to be Natasha's first solo mission, Clint and Natasha take some big steps in becoming the close-knit pair they are today. Clintasha oneshot. Clint!Whump. "Thanks a lot, Barton," she snapped. "Fury's going to be thrilled when he finds out I slept for three hours during a stakeout on my first solo mission!"


The wheels of the small private jet finally touched down, and the white aircraft moved down the runway, gradually slowing until it came to a complete stop. A moment passed, then the door opened and Agent Clint Barton alighted.

Dragging a compact, black suitcase behind him, he made his way across the landing strip towards a scowling redhead, who was crossing her arms and leaning against a gray vehicle.

"I told Fury I could handle this by myself," the girl stated in annoyance.

"Missed you too, Nat," Clint said unaffectedly, opening the trunk of the car and loading his suitcase.

"I told you not to call me that," Natasha Romanoff returned. "Anyway, Fury _said_ this could be a solo mission. Then I go for seventy-two hours without finding Venski, and he panics and ends a babysitter!"

Clint didn't know Natasha very well yet, but he that his presence was one of the few she didn't mind. He sensed that the real reason for her frustration was not so much the babysitter as the seventy-two hours.

"Don't feel bad about it, Romanoff," he said, slamming the trunk shut. "Venski's a slippery character, so it's no surprise you haven't caught up with him yet. Fury's just trying to help."

"Well, I don't need help," Natasha said impatiently. "Like I told him, I located Venski's residence this morning. If he'd just given me six more hours, I could have easily brought both Venski and the files back to Shield."

"Great, so this mission shouldn't take long at all," Clint said optimistically. He nodded towards the car. "Can I drive?"

Natasha huffed in annoyance and stalked around to the other side of the car, sliding into the passenger seat.

As they drove away from the airport and down the busy streets of Augusta, Maine, Natasha looked at Clint. "Barton… I think you and I both know that Fury didn't just send you down here because he was getting antsy."

Clint nodded slowly, gazing thoughtfully at the road ahead of him.

"He's uncomfortable because Venski's Russian. And now that I'm finally closing in on him, he's having second thoughts.

"Fury's just being cautious. He trusts you, Nat."

"Natasha. And it's pretty obvious that he doesn't. He sent you here because he thinks that when I find Venski, I'll drop everything and run away with him, and spill Shield secrets to KGB."

"Like I said, Fury's just being cautious," Clint reiterated. "If he didn't trust you at all, he wouldn't have given you a solo mission to begin with. And anyway, you've only been working at Shield for eight months. Give him some time, and you'll get all the solo missions you want." He looked sidewise at her. "That is, unless you change your mind and decide you like working with a partner.

Natasha snorted derisively. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Hey, take a right here. Venski's staying in that hotel.

Clint turned; and minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot of a large brick hotel.

"So all we have to do is run in, grab Venski and the files, and run back out, right?" Clint asked as he parked.

"Not quite so simple," Natasha replied. "If those files are as important as Fury thinks they are, Venski will have hidden them well. And he'll die before he hands them over. I should know, I used to transport files sometimes."

"So… we run in, grab Venski, _find_ the files, then run back out?" Clint asked.

Natasha sent him an unamused look before speaking. "We could, but it's possible he has some kind of failsafe rigged up. I think our best bet is to get in there and look for the files without him knowing."

"Is he there now?" Clint asked.

"Yep."

"Should I create a diversion to get him out of his room?"

"That'll make him suspicious," Natasha said. "We'll just have to sit here and wait for him to come out."

"So, a stakeout?" Clint said.

"Right." Natasha leaned back against her seat.

Clint couldn't help thinking that there had to be a quicker way to secure Venski and the files, but this had been Natasha's mission in the first place; and he didn't want to rub salt on the wound by arguing with her methods. Plus, Natasha had undoubtedly already considered all the factors at play; so while there might indeed be a quicker way to complete their mission, Natasha's way was unquestionably the most foolproof. She was very thorough and analytical.

Clint looked towards her thoughtfully. He was amused to see her blinking very slowly, like she was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

"Are you tired?" he asked curiously.

"No," she answered. But she said it a little too quickly; too smoothly. Clint tilted his head and studied her more closely. She sat up straighter and kept her eyes gazing steadily forward.

"When was the last time you slept?" Clint asked suspiciously.

She gave a noncommittal shrug. "I dunno. I've been kinda busy."

"Then when do you _think_ it was?" Clint persisted.

Natasha hesitated. "Well I haven't really been keeping track of-"

"Natasha," Clint interrupted in a warning tone.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Okay fine I haven't slept since I got down here."

"What?" Clint said in disbelief. "Seventy-two hours ago?"

"Well I've kinda had more important things on my mind," Natasha said defensively.

"Sleep is important! Now get some!"

She exhaled. "No thanks. I've got to keep my eyes peeled for Venski."

"Well I've got eyes enough for both of us. And I can tell you're really tired," Clint stated.

Her jaw tightened. "I told you I don't want to sleep right now, Barton. So just drop it."

Clint blinked in surprise. Being stubborn was normal for Natasha, but being irrational was not. Surely she saw the logic to what he was saying. So why wouldn't she—

Then it hit him. She was scared. Natasha didn't want to sleep unless she was alone, safely behind a locked door.

Come to think of it, that was probably why she never slept on missions, unless she had a private room (which was a rare luxury). Clint had just assumed it was just insomnia, or she was just being careful. But now he saw that it was because sleeping in another person's presence put her in a position of vulnerability to them.

And if there was one thing Clint knew about Natasha, it was that she hated feeling vulnerable.

Maybe that was also why she wanted to work without a partner. Because to her, solitude meant less risk.

"Natasha, look at me," Clint said seriously.

She grudgingly dragged her eyes to his face.

"Your body needs rest, otherwise it'll shut down. And I've got your back, I promise. Now go to sleep."

She squinted appraisingly at him. He gazed steadily back at her, waiting.

Then she apparently decided she was too tired to argue; and she leaned her seat back and closed her eyes.

"Wake me up in fifteen minutes," she mumbled; then she fell silent.

It may have only been a small victory, but Clint was on top of the world. There were only a select few people who could change Natasha's mind: Fury, sometimes Coulson, and, apparently, himself. And she actually trusted him enough to fall asleep in his presence, which she hadn't done for anyone else.

Clint watched as Natasha's face relaxed and she slipped further into oblivion. It struck him suddenly how different she looked when she was asleep. Her face wore none of the expressions he was used to seeing on her: intense focus, blatant disgust, irritated scowl, sarcastic smirk. It was not even the cold, emotionless façade she wore most the time. This was different somehow; emotionless, yes, but much more relaxed and calm.

Natasha mumbled something in Russian, and sighed. Clint wondered briefly what she was dreaming about; he could only hope she wasn't having nightmares.

 _You're being creepy, Clint,_ he told himself, tearing his gaze away from his partner. _Stay focused on the mission. Fury sent you down here for a reason, and it wasn't so you could spy on Natasha while she sleeps._

 _Even if it is much more enjoyable than spying on an intel transporter._

-:():-

Three hours passed with no sign of Venski. At first it was relaxing for Clint to sit watching as afternoon faded to evening, the silence broken only by Natasha's steady breathing; but eventually, it grew tedious. Luckily, Clint had a lot to think about; specifically, how to convince Natasha to let his limbs remain intact when she woke up and realized how long he'd let her sleep.

Finally, she stirred; and Clint watched in the rearview mirror as her hazel eyes slid open.

A few seconds of drowsiness and disorientation. Then a moment of sheer panic when it hit her that she'd been _asleep_ and someone else was there. A minute of relief when she comprehended that it was Clint; that he'd protected her like he said he would; that she was fine. And finally, her eyes flicked to the digital clock.

Clint braced himself as she noted the time, scowled darkly, and met his eyes in the mirror.

"I told you to wake me up in fifteen minutes," she stated accusingly.

"You needed the sleep," Clint said, turning his gaze to the hotel again.

Natasha groaned and covered her face with her hands. "Thanks a lot, Barton," she snapped. "Fury's going to be thrilled when he finds out I slept for three hours during a stakeout on my first solo mission!"

"This isn't a solo mission. Not anymore," Clint said. "And if it was, then yeah, that'd be bad. But now that I'm here, you can afford to close your eyes for a little while."

"A little while?" Natasha repeated in disgust. "You call three hours a little while?"

Clint turned abruptly towards Natasha, meeting her eyes earnestly. "Natasha," he said. "If you're sleep deprived, it can affect your performance. Your aim would be off and your reflexes would be slow. And if you're not up to your usual par, that affects your ability to interact with me as a partner, and ultimately, affects the outcome of this mission. So the reasons I gave you such a long break were _purely_ tactical."

Natasha narrowed her eyes at the lie, but allowed him to continue.

"I don't know how it was in the Red Room, but here at Shield, if you need to recharge, catch a couple winks, that's fine, encouraged even; and they're not going to take away your allowance money or cut off your fingers or whatever it was they did to you back in Russia. That's one of the benefits of working with a partner: I've got your back."

She studied him for a moment, her unfathomable eyes boring into his. Then she released him from her gaze and looked out the window, seeming satisfied to end their conversation there.

Several minutes passed in silence, and Clint thought the subject had been dropped, when Natasha suddenly muttered, "Thanks."

He looked at her in surprise, but she avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the hotel. Her face was inscrutable, but he thought he'd detected a twinge of repentance in her tone. Truthfully, that surprised her even more than the fact that she'd thanked him for something, which was also rare.

Clint was tempted to ask, "Are you feeling okay? Maybe we should stop by a hospital." Or maybe, "Who are you and what have you done with Natasha?" But he decided against both these responses and settled instead for a simple, "You're welcome."

And that was that.

-:():-

A little while later, when the daylight was beginning to fade, a slouching figure exited the hotel. Natasha straightened and took her feet off the dashboard, and she and Clint watched Venski walk down the street away from the building.

"Change of plans," Natasha said. "I go to the hotel alone, you tail Venski."

"Got it," Clint said, secreting his collapsible bow in his jacket. "Comms on?"

"Check," she replied, tapping a finger to her ear to power up the device.

They both got out of the car and split up, heading towards their respective targets.

Clint kept a reasonable distance away from Venski, hoping that the latter wouldn't realize he was being followed. Rather than confront Venski immediately, he decided instead to follow him for a while in the hopes of learning his destination.

"Fury said not to kill him, right?" Clint muttered into his earpiece.

"Right. Unless it's necessary," Natasha confirmed.

"You having any luck?" Clint asked.

"I'm in his room. Haven't found the files yet"

About ten minutes passed, then Natasha said, "Got it."

"You found them?" Clint said as Venski rounded a corner into an alley. "Perfect. Rendezvous at-

Before he could finish, he had turned the corner, and Venski was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and pressing a knife to his throat.

Reacting speedily, Clint grabbed the man by the shoulders and threw him off, then flipped up to his feet.

"Barton? What's going on?" Natasha asked tensely, as Venski grunted and dragged himself to his feet.

Clint assumed a defensive stance. "He just jumped me and – oof!" Clint's words were cut off as Venski delivered a sound blow to his stomach. Clint blocked a left hook to the jaw and kicked the man in the groin.

"I'm on my way," Natasha said, as a volley of blows rained down on Clint. "Where are you?"

"Uh…" Clint blocked several more punches and managed to land a couple of solid hits to Venki's face.

"Hawkeye, location," Natasha persisted.

"I'm in an alley somewhere," Clint said. He was inwardly cursing himself for getting engaged in hand-to-hand combat, which was not his strongest suit. He should have shot Venski with a tranquilizer dart before getting involved, that would have been a lot easier.

"I'm gonna need a little more than that," Natasha said.

"Little busy right now!" Clint replied. To make matters worse, Venski had reinstituted the use of his knife, and was trying for all he was worth to get in a stab or two.

Clint twisted his opponent's wrist, forcing the tip of the knife to point away from him. Then he wrested his other arm out of Venski's grip and shoved the man forcefully against the brick wall.

In the short break that followed, Clint glanced around, searching for a landmark that could give Natasha a clue to his whereabouts.

It was a crucial mistake. He had scarcely taken his eyes off his opponent when a white-hot pain exploded in his left shoulder. Bright lights flashed before Clint's eyes, and he became immune to the rest of the world; all he knew was the blinding agony in his shoulder.

 _That was not a normal knife,_ was his last lucid thought, then it all dissolved and all he could think was, _Please. Please get it out of me. Make it stop,_ as his whole arm throbbed.

His pain doubled with every passing second, and soon, all he could think was, _Cut it off. Cut the arm off. It's killing me. Please cut it off._

Minutes passed, or maybe hours, he didn't know. Then, abruptly, the pain in his shoulder lessened. He felt released, blissful, and his arm felt perfect. _They must have cut it off. Thank you. Thank you._

Gradually, his head began to clear, and his thoughts became more lucid. He eventually realized that his arm still hurt, it was on fire, but it was not as bad as it had been because the knife was no longer protruding from his shoulder.

He blinked slowly, trying to grasp his surroundings, and heard a familiar voice speaking earnestly, but he couldn't make out the words. He became aware that he was lying on the ground, and that a blurry figure was bending over him. Slowly, Natasha came into focus.

She was leaning over him, and there was something in her expression… was that – concern? It looked unnatural on her face. He would have been less surprised to see her face turn purple.

Clint groaned as he finally returned to the present, and his arm began to throb again.

"Barton! You back?" Natasha asked, sounding anxious. She was pressing a red-stained cloth against his wounded shoulder, trying to keep him from bleeding out.

"I'm here," Clint managed to say. His tongue felt stiff and his mouth was dry.

Natasha frowned. "So what was all the screaming about?"

"Uh…" Clint's brain felt fuzzy. He turned his head and saw a blood-soaked knife lying a few feet away. "I just got stabbed."

"Yes I know, I pulled the knife out of you," Natasha said impatiently. "That doesn't explain why you were yelling your head off."

"Well… getting stabbed kinda hurts," Clint said.

Natasha scoffed. "Oh, come on, it's just a _stab wound,"_ she said scornfully, in the same voice you might use to tell a complaining toddler that 'it's just a bug bite. "It's no reason for you to beg me to cut off your arm."

"Did I?" Clint frowned, trying to remember. Then it struck him – the thought he'd had right after the knife had pierced him: 'That was not a normal knife.'

"I think… it might have been poisoned," Clint said.

Understanding came over Natasha's face.

"I think Venski—" Suddenly it all came flooding back. "Where's Venski?" he demanded.

"He split when I got here," Natasha said.

"Well, he can't have got far! We have to go after him!" Clint started to get up, but Natasha pushed against his chest, forcing him back down onto the pavement.

"Whoa, take a breather, Hawk."

"But he's getting away!" Clint tried to pull her hands off him, but he still felt weak.

"I know, but if you're right, and the knife was poisoned, then moving around's just gonna make it spread more quickly."

"Well it'll just take a second, all we have to do is tranq him!" Clint continued to struggle.

"No, you need to stay put."

Clint stopped struggling and looked her dead in the eye. "Natasha, stop worrying about me."

Natasha's eyes flashed and she moved her hands off his chest. "I am not worried about you!" she said defensively.

"Great. Then let's go." Clint stood up. Ignoring the wave of dizziness that swept over him. "We split up here and sweep the area. Two, three mile radius ground check. Okay?"

Natasha was crossing her arms and glowering at him. "Fine," she spat. She tossed him the bloodstained rag she'd been holding against his wound and stalked off down the alley.

Clint pressed the cloth to his shoulder and started off in the other direction.

Clint moved quickly down the street, hugging buildings, sticking to the shadows, and keeping a sharp lookout for their quarry. The sun had set, and the streets were dark, silent, and mostly empty. Now and then a car sped by, and a few people moseyed down the sidewalks, but for the most part, he was alone.

After about a quarter of an hour, Natasha's voice sounded in Clint's ear. "Found him."

Clint halted. "Where are you?" he asked, his eyes automatically scanning his surroundings.

"Sixteenth Street," came the reply.

"I'm en route," Clint said, turning his steps toward her location.

But as he hurried along the road, things started changing. The world around him seemed to tilt, and he felt like he was floating. Clint began to feel light-headed, and paused under a street lamp to get his bearings.

Or had he stopped? No, he was still moving. Waves of nausea washed over him, and suddenly, he found himself facedown on the pavement, his nose inches away from the asphalt.

Fireworks exploded behind his eyes, and his breathing grew labored. He had to get out of the road, there were cars… He could hear his heart thumping, and sweat trickled down his forehead, yet he shivered in the cool breeze. His ears started ringing.

"Tasha," he managed to gasp. He thought she replied, but he didn't hear what she said.

His head pounded, and black spots appeared behind his eyes. They grew larger, completely blotting out his vision, and then…

-:():-

Clint opened his eyes. He was lying in a hospital bed, and the high-pitched beeping of machines filled his ears.

A nurse stood nearby, scribbling away on a clipboard. When Clint stirred, she looked down at him and smiled.

"Mr. Drew?" she said.

 _Drew?_ Clint stared blankly at her. Then it clicked. Natasha had given him a false name.

"Yes," he said.

"It's good to see you finally awake, Mr. Drew. I'm Grace. How are you feeling?"

Clint closed his eyes. "Tired," he said finally. "And my shoulder hurts."

Grace nodded sympathetically. "That's perfectly normal. You should feel soreness for a few more weeks."

Clint shifted into a more comfortable position. "How long have I been asleep?"

"You've been asleep since you got here, about twelve hours ago."

Clint blinked in surprise. "Where am I?"

"South Augusta Hospital."

Clint was silent for a minute, taking it all in.

"Your girlfriend told us all about what happened to you," Grace said.

 _Girlfriend? Oh, right._

"Do you remember what happened?" Grace asked.

Clint was about to nod, when he realized that Natasha had undoubtedly made up a story. So he shook his head.

"Well, that's perfectly understandable," Grace said. "She said you were walking down the street back to your house, when you were mugged. Apparently there was a scuffle that ended in you getting stabbed in the shoulder. You blacked out, and your girlfriend called the police. Unfortunately, the man got away."

Clint nodded, wondering whether or not Venski had really gotten away.

"So where's…?" Clint paused. Grace hadn't mentioned what Natasha was calling herself. "My girlfriend?" he finished.

"She's in the waiting room," Grace said with a smile. "You know, Mr. Drew, you have a fine partner in her. It's very obvious how much she cares about you."

Clint almost snorted. Natasha caring about someone? That sounded oxymoronic, like saying bunnies were vicious or Fury was a sweet, good-tempered man.

"Can I see her?" he asked Grace.

"In a little while," she replied. "First, Dr. Griffin wants to ask you a few questions. The poison that was injected into you by the knife can sometimes cause amnesia. You don't remember being attacked, and that's a strong indicator that you have it, so we need to ascertain how much damage has been done."

"Okay."

Grace left the room, and shortly afterward returned with a plump, balding man who introduced himself as Dr. Griffin.

"I'm just going to ask you a few questions, Mr. Drew," Dr. Griffin said, consulting the clipboard in his hands. "First of all, what year is it?"

"2003," Clint said.

"Correct. And who is the current president of the United States?"

"George W. Bush."

"Correct. And what is your full name?"

"Uh…" Clint froze. Dr. Griffin looked expectantly at him, and he licked his lips nervously.

Then his eyes flicked to the reflective glass window in the door behind Dr. Griffin. He could see the back of the doctor, and, more importantly, he could see the clipboard in the doctor's hands.

Clint relaxed. They didn't call him Hawkeye for nothing.

"John Arthur Drew," he read aloud.

The doctor nodded approvingly, and Grace smiled with encouragement. Clint sighed in relief.

Dr. Griffin asked Clint several more questions, all of which he was able to answer easily. At last the doctor tucked the clipboard under his arm and smiled.

"Congratulations, Mr. Drew. You're good to go," he said. "Are you feeling up to visitors?"

"Yeah," Clint said.

"Good," said Dr. Griffin. "Because there is a lovely redhead sitting in the waiting room who I'm sure would like a word with you."

"Yeah, it'd be great to see… her," Clint said.

"Do you know she never once left your side while you were unconscious?" Dr. Griffin said.

Clint froze. "What?"

"Yes, remarkable," Dr. Griffin went on. "Because of the poison, we weren't sure if you were going to wake up, but Miss Fleming wouldn't give up. She stayed in this room the whole time, holding your hand. In fact, she only just walked out a few minutes ago, right when you started to wake up."

Clint just stared uncomprehendingly at him.

Grace cleared her throat. "Well, we'll go tell her she can come back in now," she said. "Call if you need anything, Mr. Drew."

And they both left the room.

A few minutes later, Clint heard footsteps coming down the hall, then Natasha walked into the room.

"Hey," she said, sitting down at the foot of the hospital bed.

"Hi, Miss Fleming," Clint teased.

Natasha smirked and rolled her eyes. "We're just lucky no one recognized us," she said. "That's the main risk in going to hospitals… but I didn't know how to get the poison out of you."

"You made the right call, Nat," Clint assured her.

She offered him a rare genuine smile, and Grace's words inexplicably popped into Clint's mind: _"It's very obvious how much she cares about you."_

"So how are you feeling?" Natasha asked.

Clint blinked. "Huh? Oh! Um… better. Tired, still kinda sore. A little cold."

Natasha frowned. "Cold? You look flushed." Her eyes moved to the machine that tracked his vitals, and Clint followed her gaze. His pulse, blood pressure, and respiration were all normal.

Natasha pursed her lips. "Hm. Maybe you're running a fever." She leaned forward and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. They both watched as his pulse rate bounced up several digits.

Quickly, Natasha stood and turned her face away, walking to the opposite side of the room. "You feel feverish," she said, taking a bottle of aspirin from the table. She passed it to him and sat back down.

"Thanks for your concern," Clint said, dumping two or three pills into his mouth.

"Just helping out. Not concerned."

"Right," Clint said. "Speaking of which, where's Venski? He get away?"

"Oh, no, I got him," Natasha said with relish. "He's been tied up in the back of the car for the past twelve hours."

"Oh, nice. So we can go home now," Clint said. He smiled. "He put up a pretty good fight?"

Natasha shrugged. "Nah. I tranq'ed him before he even saw me."

Clint froze. "Wait… all you did was tranq him?"

"Yeah… why? Did you think I'd have trouble?"

"No, not at all, I just… I mean you didn't seem that happy that he stabbed me. I just wondered if you'd, you know, lay into him a little."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. "Are you saying you thought I would beat him up just because I was mad that he stabbed you?"

"Just because – oh no no," Clint said quickly. "I think part of it was you were just venting. Like you were mad since it was partly your fault that I got stabbed, and you were just taking it out on him."

"What!" Natasha jumped to her feet. "In what way is it my fault you got stabbed?"

"It really wasn't, Nat," Clint said quickly. "I just thought you might have felt like it was, since you were distracting me by asking-"

"Stop right there, Clint Barton," Natasha interrupted, her eyes blazing. "Let's just get one thing straight. Getting stabbed was your own stupid fault, and I am not feeling _the least bit_ guilty. Got that?"

"Yep. Can I have a drink?"

"Sure." Natasha was across the room and back in less than three seconds. Clint hid his mile behind the water bottle. _Yep, definitely guilty._

Clint set down the plastic bottle. "You know, Nat, you probably shouldn't have done it, but I feel kinda touched that you wanted to lick Venski for me."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I just told you, Barton, I didn't lick him. All I did was tranq him. And, hypothetically, even if I _had_ been a little hard on him, it would have been for my own personal reasons, not because I felt mad or guilty or whatever it was you said. Cause like I said, getting stabbed was your own stupid fault. I had nothing to do with it."

"Right," Clint said, nodding.

Natasha stood up. "Well… I'm gonna go get the car. It's still parked in front of the hotel. Be back in about twenty minutes."

"Okay," Clint said.

She left the room.

Clint counted to a minute and twenty-seven seconds before the door opened and she barged back in.

"Barton," she said. "Hypothetically, let's say I did beat up on Venski a little." She paused.

"Okay," said Clint.

"Okay," Natasha repeated. "So let's say I did. Hypothetically, how would you have figured it out?"

"Well, let me think," Clint said, hiding a smile. "So, hypothetically, let's say you were mad at Venski. And you felt guilty for getting me stabbed. So you decided to beat up on him. Hypothetically, it'd probably get kinda messy, right?"

Natasha nodded.

"Right," Clint said. "So, in this hypothetical scenario, let's say you were concerned about me. Let's say you were so concerned, that you stayed with me for twelve hours straight while I was unconscious."

Natasha snorted like it was the most absurd idea she'd ever heard.

"So in that case," Clint continued. "Hypothetically, you wouldn't have a chance to look into a mirror."

Her expression froze as she slowly grasped his meaning.

"So if that happened," Clint said, unable to keep a grin from spreading across his face, "then, hypothetically, I would tell you to wash the blood off your face before going out in public."

Natasha's hands jumped to her face, and she rubbed uselessly at the dried blood that was spattered across her cheeks and forehead.

Clint poured some of his bottled water on a tissue and handed it to her. She took it and scrubbed rapidly at her face.

"Barton," she said quietly, sitting down on the bed again. "Let's say I did stay with you for twelve hours straight. If I did, then hypothetically, it wouldn't be because I was _concerned_ about you. It would be for a completely different reason. It would be because I felt that it would be irresponsible, professionally speaking, to leave my partner alone if he was injured, and because I thought it would come in handy to have a report – stop smiling. Honestly, Clint, stop it! It wasn't personal!"

"I'm not smiling," Clint said gleefully. He reached forward and wiped a smear of blood off her temple with his thumb. "Just like you didn't beat up Venski."

She stared inscrutably at him for a moment, narrowing her eyes appraisingly. Then the corners of her mouth twitched.

"I'm gonna go get the car," she said, standing up. "Anything you want before I go?"

"Hmm." Clint tapped at his chin, pretending to think. "Anything I want. Well, hypothetically, I wouldn't mind a date. Are you busy this weekend?"

Instead, he got a wet, bloody tissue in the face before Natasha skipped out the door.

But as her footsteps faded down the hall, Clint smiled. She hadn't corrected him when he called her 'Nat.' When he teased her, she had actually smiled instead of glaring at him. And even better, she'd done something he never thought she'd do, something he'd been trying to get her to do almost since the first day he'd met her.

She had called him Clint.


End file.
